On Deaf Ears
by CrysWimmer
Summary: GSR: Beginning during the episode Playing with Fire and diverging from there, this story moves into an alternate universe where Sara and Grissom have more in common than they know.
1. The Whys and Wherefores

On Deaf Ears

By Crystal Wimmer

A/N: This story begins during the events of Play with Fire and diverges from there with an added element. Expect spoilers through the end of the third season, and beyond that an alternate universe.

Chapter 1

Ironically, she didn't hear the explosion at first. Sara saw Greg lean sideways and wondered what the hell was going on, and then she saw the glass coming towards her. It wasn't until she'd hit the wall that the overpowering sound rang through her head. Once she'd heard it, she found that it echoed and reverberated in the air, never entirely going away. At some point the sound was replaced by the roar of flames and the muted calls of her friends and coworkers. She saw Greg lift his head, and then drop it once more, and she wished more than anything that she could get to him to help him.

When someone grabbed her and pulled her from her place on the floor, her first thought was that they shouldn't move her. Weren't you supposed to leave people with head and back injuries still? Her head was throbbing, her ears were ringing, and her back hurt like hell. Still, there did seem to be more threat from the encroaching flames than the arms tugging her up, so she went willingly enough, allowing them to drag her through the halls and out onto the lawn.

Outside, the lab was in chaos. It looked like every disaster scene that Sara had ever witnessed on CNN. She rarely saw this immediate chaos in her job, as the CSIs were not often first on the scene. Usually, the police and emergency crews took care of the victims and then they came in to do their thing. She had never thought that her own world could become the crime scene. She had never thought that she could have been hurt simply walking down the hall after Grissom.

Grissom.

Where was he? Despite the ringing in her head, she made a frantic scan to see if she could find him. As someone deposited her safely on the curb, she didn't even have the presence of mind to thank them. Her mind was in one place, and that was a destroyed hallway in which her boss had passed through and to the office beyond. Was he safe? Had he made it out?

Then she saw him. He was walking alongside a stretcher which carried Greg, carefully propped on his side. Absently it occurred to her that they hadn't moved him from his fallen position. She shook her aching head, trying to clear the vision that periodically blurred as she watched the door close on the helicopter. She thought it was oddly quiet; didn't they normally slam the door to secure it? Weren't helicopters normally loud? It was a random thought. She knew she was dazed, and probably in shock. It was a hazard of being a scientist; she knew just enough to worry herself.

Realizing that she didn't really have the strength to stand or the desire to do so, she remained seated on the curb with her legs folded beneath her as she watched the chaos around her. Triage was going on at many levels, and it looked as much like a war zone as it did a parking lot. But the movement wasn't… normal. It was in slow motion, and slightly fuzzy, and none of the sounds seemed to penetrate the buzz that remained in her ears. She felt like she had after she'd left the Rush concert the summer before; as though the world were on the other side of a bubble, and she was listening through it.

The same vagueness accompanied Grissom's arrival. She looked up at him, registering that he was okay, and that he was looking concerned. As much as she wanted him to notice her, pity wasn't the way she wanted to gain his attention. In addition, she couldn't really hear what he was saying. He had mumbled something, his expression earnest, but it wasn't entirely clear. It was that buzz, she decided. The ringing that had begun with the explosion simply hadn't had time to clear. He was talking to her, and the expression on his face was becoming increasingly concerned. She didn't want that. She didn't want him to worry.

She assured him that she was okay, and tried to divert him to work. That had always worked in the past when she had been unsure of what to say to him. When she was sure that she was about to make an emotional fool out of herself – again – she simply went back to the subject of work.

She had already told him that she was fine, or at least she thought she had. Still, he was holding her hand. His voice echoed through the auditory bubble that she seemed to be in.

"Honey, this doesn't look good."

She knew that she wasn't hearing things correctly then. After all, he'd never used an endearment with anyone on his staff, even Catherine, let alone her. She shook her head, as much to clear it as to negate what he had said. "It's fine," she finally got out.

Work, she reminded herself; back to work. She looked up to meet his eyes, but her glance didn't stay there. "Cleanup's going to be something," she pondered aloud as she looked past Grissom to the insanity around her. Her voice sounded odd, vibrating and muffled rather than clear. She ignored it. "We should get started…"

Grissom got a determined look on his face that was just shy of a glare, tempered only by an obvious concern. If she had been able to get her head clear, she would have appreciated the TLC; as it was, she didn't know what to do with it. "You need to get stitches," he insisted.

"I'm okay," she said again, once more hearing the muffled words echoing through her mind as though she hadn't spoken them at all. She just wanted time to sort it all out, and to clear her head. She always thought better when she was working. It didn't look like she was going to get it, though.

Grissom had turned to a nearby EMT, and waved him over. "Would you take care of her hand, please?" he requested. He pulled her up by both hands, passed her physically into the hands of the EMT, and then went off talking to someone else. She couldn't hear a word he was saying now that he was more than a yard away.

Before Sara could argue, she had been escorted to an ambulance and was being looked over quite thoroughly. She thought it was overkill, and she would have much rather sat on the curb with Grissom holding her hand, but nobody had asked her opinion. Her hand was wiped clean, had gauze placed over it, and then she was handed an ice pack with the muffled orders to stay where she was and to hold her hand above her heart. She thought the entire situation was blown entirely out of proportion, but then that was the problem. The lab had been blown up, and she had been essentially at ground zero.

Moments later, she was shooed towards the inside of the ambulance and the doors once more closed with an oddly muffled thump. The paramedic held pressure on the ice pack that was in her hand, and that was the way she stayed until they arrived at Desert Palm Hospital. Once there, she was faced with the indignity of filling out forms with one incapacitated hand and waiting while everyone who was more seriously injured was treated first.

It was frightening to see so many of her coworkers sitting around her with the same glazed expression that she knew she must be wearing. They appeared to be talking among themselves, and she couldn't understand how they could manage it in the rumble of the room. The high-pitched hum that had been present since the explosion was still making it difficult for her to hear, and she was in no mood for discussion anyway. Fortunately, outside her immediate team, she wasn't the most friendly of women, so she wasn't assaulted with inquiries as to how she felt or what had happened. She simply sat in the whining room and stared at the television, which emitted no sound.

Three hours later, she was finally nursing a well-stitched hand and wondering how the hell she was going to get home. Just about the time she decided that she would need to call a cab, she saw Nick walking through the sliding double doors with a cautious smile.

"Looks like my timing's perfect," he told her with a smile that looked more than a little forced.

"Huh?" She had heard about every other word, and when combined with the odd expression on his face it caused the entire sentence to make no sense.

"Your chariot awaits," he said with a flourish and a gesture to the double doors. "Griss sent me to take you home. He knew you wouldn't have your car, and getting a cab from this place requires an act of God. When the doc called and said you were done here, he sent me right out."

She had definitely heard that, although it still retained the muffled quality that everything else seemed to have. She had thought about mentioning her hearing to the doctor when he'd been working on her hand, but she hadn't wanted to sound like she was complaining. There were too many people waiting for her to want him to waste his time reassuring her that she'd heard a loud noise and her ears would take a while to get back to normal. She had been on the shooting range without ear protection enough times to know that was what the problem was. She was going to be fine. And if the ringing was lasting longer and was more distracting this time around, it was just that the boom had been louder.

"I don't need to go home," she told him as he took one elbow and steered her towards the doors.

"That's where you're going," he said simply.

She shook her head adamantly once more. "Nick, I'm okay. And besides, I want to find out what happened. I almost got turned into toast, and I think I have a right to see how the investigation's going. Then there's Jesus Gardenes; we can't just let the case go, and it's not fair for you to do it all alone."

Nick looked undecided, and his words confirmed it. "Grissom was pretty clear about where he wanted you to be."

"Grissom worries too much," she muttered. "Nicky, I'm fine," she said as the reached the door to his Tahoe. "I have six stitches and a headache; that's all. Let me go try to get what's left of our case back together and see if I can still get my job done." When he cocked his head sideways in continued indecision, she added, "Nicky, please?" in her most convincing voice. "I know my limits, and I'm not there. I won't sleep anyway; I have to get this done."

With a sigh, he finally nodded and opened the door of the SUV for her. She released a grateful breath as he began the drive back to the lab. The last thing she wanted was to be alone in her apartment with her head ringing; she might as well be miserable at work as well as anywhere.

"Okay," he told her. "I'll drive you to the lab. But you don't do anything until Grissom clears you. I'll bet you a week's pay that he'll send you home, whatever you want."

"Take your bets to Warrick," she muttered with what was almost a smile, relieved when Nick did no more than grin in return. Then she just stayed quiet, praying that he wouldn't change his mind before they got to the lab. Truthfully, she had absolutely no intention of speaking to Grissom, but Nick didn't need to know that. In fact, she decided that it was better if he didn't.

Gil Grissom was doing all that he could to process something that was unthinkable. The one place that had always felt safe to him, where he was accepted and actually needed, was now evacuated pending an investigation that he might not even be allowed to take part in. Well, it certainly wasn't likely. God, he just hoped they didn't give it to Ecklie. He wanted to actually know what had gone wrong.

He hadn't known what the hell had been going on when the building had rocked around him. He had felt, rather than heard, the explosion. His hearing was just this side of undependable, and it seemed to be going in and out on him at the damnedest times. He couldn't carry on a conversation with confidence, he couldn't hear evidence described to process, and even the utter chaos around him was fading in and out with – if anything – consistent inconsistency. He was going to have to do something about the situation, but he was still reluctant to admit that there was one.

Regardless of his hearing, his vision was all he needed to tell him that it would be a while before they would be getting back into the lab. There were crews going in to check for structural stability, and with as much glass as the building held it would be a tedious process. Even when that was done, and the Bomb Squads and EOD personnel would have to inspect the building to see if there was anything else waiting to go boom. The sad fact was that this lab, just like all those belonging to the police departments, were designed to put criminals behind bars. These labs contained evidence that any number of people could want to destroy. The labs also housed a number of CSIs that more than one criminal held a grudge against. The possibilities as to what had happened – exactly – and why it had happened were mind boggling.

So rather than concentrating on the elements he couldn't control – which at this point was nearly everything – he tried his best to be useful. He had checked on a few members of the lab crews, most of whom were standing or sitting in a daze. They would be held there until they were questioned or taken to the hospital, depending on their condition. None of them looked like they were handling the situation well, and that gave him some hope. No, he wasn't keeping himself together as well as he might have liked, but neither were they. Emotionally, he was a basket case of questions and fears and inadequacy. Everyone else appeared to be in the same, rocking boat. And physically, he was doing a hell of a lot better than most of them.

He had been dead set on going into the building when he'd realized that it had been his lab – and his tech – that had taken the worst of the damage. He had demanded to be allowed into the building to check on the boy after the initial confusion of the evacuation and his own personal head count to see where his team was. They had allowed him in with the med crews, in part thanks to reasoning, arguing, and finally yelling that he had bombarded them with. They held their ground well; he had to give them that. But he could be formidable when he had to be, and when one of his kids was in danger, he was willing to fight. And truly, as brilliant as he was, Greg was only a child. A vastly intelligent and capable child – yes – but still a child.

As soon as Greg had been brought from the building, he had watched the crews only long enough to know that he was being evacuated by helicopter rather than by ambulance, and then he had been able to focus on the rest of the people around him. One of those people had been Sara.

She had looked so small sitting on the edge of the curb, her legs crossed and her hands curled protectively. There had been something dazed in her expression that had frightened him, so he'd gone over to check.

He could have lost her.

That had been the foremost thought in his mind. Looking at the scratches on her face and the cut on her hand, combined with the glassy expression, he realized that Sara was a hell of a long way from indestructible. It was a sobering reality.

Frankly, it had been one reality more than he had been able to handle at that moment. He knew it had been wrong – had been the coward's way out – but he had passed her off to the nearest medical professional as much for his own peace of mind as for her health. By the time he had allowed himself to acknowledge her again, she had been behind the closed door of an ambulance and headed for Desert Palm.

Now, he was focused on all that he could manage to cope with. He was on his case, doing his best to be sure that the right man went to jail for his crimes. They still weren't sure who that was, and part of the evidence that might have told them was now obliterated, but at the very least he had someplace besides that curb to focus his mind, someplace away from Sara.

He had sent Nick to get her, using the excuse that they were partnered, and it was the younger man's responsibility. The truth was, he was terrified to see her when he was this emotionally unstable. He might not look it, but the outward appearance of sanity was an illusion. In truth, he was barely holding himself together, and if he were to be exposed to one trauma too many – such as seeing Sara injured – he just might do something that he'd spent the last thirteen years trying to avoid. He just might admit that he wanted to be more than her professor, more than her boss, and a hell of a lot more than a friend. None of those were options, so he was deliberately going to keep his distance until his emotions were less volatile.

Besides, he decided, Nick was far better to be comforting Sara or seeing to her well being. He was young, good looking, very intelligent, and could offer her so much more than a graying old man with failing hearing. If that fact also made him a little nauseous because he knew very well that Sara and Nick were closer to siblings than to romantic interests, then he just tried to block it out. After all, it was easy to fool one's self.

So Gil Grissom worked: examining fingerprints, comparing bruises, and trying to see in his mind's eye just exactly what had occurred in that small room at the top of a high school stadium. He wasn't getting anywhere, but at least it was keeping his mind occupied. Mostly.

TBC...


	2. Doctor Ruth, er, Roth

I know you probably thought this story was long forgotten, but truthfully I just wound up slammed by real-life. Building a house will kill a person, and when you add that to IEPs, classroom observations, extended school year recommendations and about a thousand other miscellaneous things… well… this story may be slow in making it to the hard-drive. Please bear with me. Thanks much… -Crys-

Chapter 2 

Sara sat in the uncomfortable chair of the audiologist's waiting room, and she… waited. Frankly, she had been waiting for the last two weeks, so this was no more frustrating than that had been.

Two weeks. It seemed hard for her to believe that it had really been so long since her world – literally – had blown up around her. It had been two weeks since she had asked her boss to dinner, and had been shot down without consideration. It had been two weeks since she had been able to hear without a constant ringing in her head that was just about to make her go insane. It had been two weeks since she had really slept.

And, if she were truly honest, that went back to Grissom as well. On the day of the explosion, after realizing how fragile life could be, she had wanted to talk to him. She had only wanted to talk. She had missed their friendship, and she had needed some reassurance that everything would be okay. She had needed a friend, and she had received… nothing.

In fact, his rudeness had been so out of character that she had discounted it, tried again, and he had done the same thing. With two strikes in under thirty seconds, she hadn't bothered to try again. There was no point. Clearly, he didn't want to be any more than her boss. It was her own problem that she wanted to be more than his employee.

Impatient regardless of her recent practice at the waiting game, Sara uncrossed her legs and crossed them the other way, flipping a page in the Cosmo which she wasn't really reading. She couldn't concentrate with the buzz continuing in her ears, so reading was an impossibility. Like a child, she was relegated to looking at the pictures. The irritating condition had also begun to affect her work, causing her to miss instructions and misunderstand the most simple of directions.

When she had gone for her final follow-up to have sutures removed from her hand, she had shared her concerns with her physician. While only a family practitioner, the doctor had recommended an audiologist as the first step in determining whether she was really having a problem, or if this was to be expected following the explosion. It had taken another week to get an appointment with Karen Roth in the ENT clinic. She was in demand, yes, but she was also the best in the field, at least locally. If it hadn't been for some serious string-pulling by Doc Robbins, she would still be on a waiting list. Sara didn't think she could wait another day to find out what the hell was wrong.

She shifted her legs again, turned another page, and looked at her watch. She'd been waiting for over half an hour past her appointment time. She didn't know why it should bother her – it wasn't as though she ever really slept anymore – but she hated to be kept waiting. It was with great relief that she put her magazine down when her name was called, then she reached down to grab her purse.

"Come right back this way," the nurse said with a smile. "The doctor is ready for you."

As Sara rounded the row of chairs, she was nearly bowled over as several things happened simultaneously. A man was walking briskly past her when a nurse called after him. That caused the man to turn and stop, and she nearly tripped over him. She could have ignored that with a quick and embarrassed apology – never mind that it was his fault for stopping – but the words that the nurse said were impossible to ignore.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Grissom. I forgot to get you these. You'll need to take these forms up to pre-admissions, and they'll schedule your anesthesia consult prior to your surgery. If you haven't had the blood work done, we'll have to put off the surgery, so I didn't want you to forget."

"Thank you," he told her in a stilted voice.

Sara noted that his face was mottled, and his ears a bright red. It wasn't anger, but embarrassment, and she hadn't seen quite this level before. "Grissom?" she asked, still unable to believe it was really him.

"Good morning, Sara," he said simply. "If you'll excuse me, I see they've already called you…"

"Wait a minute," she said, shaking her head, willing the ringing to stop for just a moment so that she could clarify what in hell was going on. "Did she say surgery?"

He cleared his throat and looked away. "It's nothing to worry about. It's minor, and elective. Go to your appointment."

She wanted to argue, but he was already half-way out the door. Shaking her head at the idiocy of men in general, she turned to follow the nurse back to the audiologist's office to try to find out what the hell was wrong with her.

Despite her unexpected meeting, Sara did her best to maintain attention through her doctor's barrage of questions and a series of tests that the audiologist performed. First the doctor looked for any obvious damage to the ear, and then she checked for fluid with an uncomfortable device which made the ringing in her head even worse. When that torture was over, Sara was escorted to a sound-proof room for the majority of her exam. There, in the confines of the claustrophobic space, she listened as tone after tone was played through the earpieces, and then repeated the procedure with yet another of the physician's uncomfortable devices which bypassed the mechanism of the ear and checked for nerve function. When the tones had all been played – or at least the ones that Sara could distinguish from the high-pitched ring she could not hear past – the entire procedure was repeated again using words. The doctor spoke, and she was to repeat back the word as she heard it. Some of the words were as clear as a bell; many were not. Had the doctor said rope or robe? Was that word cat or cap? By the time it ended, Sara didn't even care about the results; she just wanted it to be over.

Finally the doctor opened the heavy door to the room and released what felt like pressure from the space around Sara. Logically she knew that the room had air whether the door was open or closed, but logic was in short supply as Sara nearly held her breath and waited for the doctor's verdict. The woman was not smiling.

"Sara, this line shows the level of hearing which we consider to be normal," the doctor told her as she indicated a red line which bisected the paper horizontally. Just below that line, Sara saw a jagged grouping of dots which had been connected on the computer printout. "And this," the doctor continued," shows what you have been able to hear during this testing. As you can see, you have some loss at all frequencies, however the majority of the loss is upper and lower." The doctor demonstrated the locations on her graph, and looked up for Sara's attention. At her nod, the doctor went on. "The bottom line is that you have what we consider to be a moderate hearing loss. Our second battery of tones and words show that this loss is nerve related, rather than occlusive or some other mechanical dysfunction. You also have some loss of clarity at volumes which are below this point," she added, showing another line on the paper, this one more bell-shaped than the previous ones. "Fortunately, the vast majority of the loss is outside normal speech range, so while this is a definite inconvenience, it's by no means a sign that you are going deaf."

Sara digested that for a moment before asking her first question. "Is it going to get worse?" That was her major concern.

The audiologist put down her sheet and faced Sara seriously. "I don't have an answer for you, Sara. The loss may be related to aging, to the severe concussion to the ears from the explosion, or it may just be from years of loud music and gunfire. Police officers comprise a great deal of my practice; one gun shot is worse than working at a runway for two years."

"We wear ear protection," Sara put in, not even aware of her own defensive posture.

"And it helps, but it doesn't prevent all damage."

Sara nodded her understanding. "What about the ringing?"

The doctor sighed and her expression was sad. "That ringing is something we call 'tinnitus' and it's very common. It's almost always present when nerve loss is experienced, and often it's worse to the patient than the loss of sound itself because it distorts what is heard."

"Why is it louder when it gets quiet?" Sara asked in confusion.

"It's not. Actually, the volume of the ringing is probably the same at all times, however we don't notice it as much when other sounds are holding our attention. Many of my patients play a radio at night so they can tune out the noise to sleep, or they leave on the television. But you're right; the louder things are around you, the less you will notice the ringing."

"Will it get better?"

The doctor looked at her a moment, and Sara knew the answer before it was spoken. "It is very, very unlikely. Nerve loss is generally irreparable, and in most cases it worsens with age rather than improving."

"I'm having trouble with work now," Sara said, knowing she sounded pathetic but not really caring. She would lose her job. She would lose everything she had because of this.

"And that's something we can fix," the doctor said, and for the first time Sara could see a gleam of pleasure in the woman's eyes. "What I would like to do is fit you for hearing aides. The aides will increase the tones you are able to hear, and as I said, those are in the speech range. You may still have difficulty hearing certain sounds, but I can almost guarantee a great deal of improvement over what you hear now."

"Hearing aides?" Great, Sara thought. She could look like an old woman or she could lose her job. This got better and better.

"Not as traumatic as they once were," the doctor told her with a grin. "In fact, we have several types which are virtually invisible unless you're looking for them. One of our models actually fits within the canal and is truly impossible to see, but I don't recommend it. I find that it's very limited in it's amplification and I can't make adjustments as effectively. In addition, while you get used to using the aides you'll probably prefer a model with volume control so you aren't overwhelmed."

"How…" Sara began, and then stopped. It seemed so trivial to worry about money; this was her hearing after all. This was her job. This was her only chance, or at least it sounded that way to her.

"They're not inexpensive," the doctor admitted. "But I will tell you that one of the companies we work with provides a significant discount to law enforcement and rescue personnel as a courtesy; you essentially get the aides at cost. For both aides, you're looking at about seven hundred dollars.

She took a quick intake of breath. Yes, she had the money, but that was a hell of a lot. "What if they don't work?"

"You have three months to try them with a no-risk return policy. If you can't adjust, then you're refunded completely. It's really a no lose proposition. If they work, then you get your hearing back. If not, then you haven't lost anything more."

"Great," Sara muttered under her breath. "I sure hope you have a payment plan."

Gil gently pounded his head into the steering wheel of his car, grateful for the resounding thud which filled his mind. It was painful, but at the very least it was distracting him from the embarrassment of what was to come.

Sara knew. She might not know about his hearing loss, but she knew about his upcoming surgery, if indirectly. He knew her well enough to realize that she wouldn't let their meeting go without an explanation. He would have to tell her the truth.

Shit.

Lying really didn't occur to him; not with Sara. He respected her intelligence too much to think she wouldn't put two and two together. Hopefully, he could catch her at work that night and explain that he really didn't want anyone to know. He didn't want to worry anyone, didn't want the sympathy, and sure as hell didn't want his job on the line for something that might be correctable by surgery. Doctor Roth had been reasonably certain that the surgery would be successful. He had been so sure that he could slip this by everyone at work.

Putting the Tahoe in drive, he made his way through the city streets with the absent precision of a man who had driven it a thousand times before. His mind was occupied with so many other things. He would need to call his mother; she deserved to know, even if it would cause her guilt. It wasn't her fault she'd passed on a recessive gene for deafness; she hadn't even known she had the disease until he'd been five years old. Still, he remembered the painful process of watching her lose her hearing. Over the duration of three years, she had juggled work, a growing son, an increasingly dissatisfied husband, and the adjustment to the deaf community. She had been a remarkable example, but that didn't mean he wanted to join her silent world.

Gil didn't even think of going home; he knew he couldn't sleep, and there was always paperwork to manage. He had found that daylight hours provided him ample opportunity to get things done – at least minimally – so that he didn't have to give up field work. Lately he had been passing off assignments, true. But he was relatively certain that he would be back to his usual form once the surgery was complete. He should be. He had to be. Hell, his job was all he had; it was all he'd let himself have.

Absently, his mind drifted back to Sara. Why had she been at the Audiology clinic? Why had she been seeing Doctor Roth? Was she having trouble of some kind? Wouldn't she have told him if she was?

He could answer that last one, though. Sara wouldn't be likely to spit on him if he were on fire, much less come to him with a problem. Unbidden, the memory of her expression when he'd rejected her offer of dinner flashed into his mind.

"By the time you figure it out, it really may be too late."

He had it figured out. Unfortunately, he was a realist. Even if he weren't her supervisor, he wouldn't burden anyone with the possibility of a deaf husband and father – or a deaf child. He couldn't do it. Even if he weren't fifteen years older; even if she weren't one of the few people he truly, truly cared about. Even if he loved her.

So he had put the blame on himself, and he had sent her away with anger rather than sympathy for him. It was better this way, he told himself. She deserved better than a relationship with an old, deaf entomologist who cared more about his job than his next meal. She just didn't know it yet.

But regardless of what she knew about him personally, he was going to have to talk to her about the surgery. Maybe he could find out what was up with her at the same time.

A man could hope.


	3. Me, Me, Me!

Chapter 3 

Of course, it wasn't until Sara walked into her apartment that the questions really began to slam her. Everything from 'how will I know if this is going to get worse?' to 'how can I get this goo from the molds out of my ears,' to 'when will the silly things get here' seemed to be rolling through her mind at light speed. She didn't like not knowing what was happening; she liked what she did know even less.

She slept very little that day, although the insomnia was more closely related to her whirling thoughts than to the constant hum which – as the doctor had advised – was minimized by some soft music. Still, sleep didn't come. She tried all her usual tools, ranging from a bubble bath to a stiff shot of Southern Comfort. She wasn't comforted.

She had lost part of her hearing – one of her five senses – and as logically as she reasoned with herself that she still had four more and most of that first one, she just couldn't help wondering what she was missing. While the explosion might have been what caused her to notice the loss, and indeed had furthered the nerve damage, it had by no means been the only reason for her losing hearing. How long had it been going on? Why in hell hadn't she thought to ask the doctor.

By the time she was scheduled for work, she was far more buzzed on coffee than she was tired from the day spent chasing fears in circles. She hadn't been able to keep down any dinner due to nerves being on edge, and above and beyond it all she was furious with herself for being so shaken by something that wasn't even new. Nor, had the doctor informed her, was it news. Apparently almost fifty percent of adults her age had some level of loss, and a full twenty percent had more. Most of them didn't even know it, because testing was not common and the signs were so gradual that many people missed them. None of that mattered to Sara, though. What mattered was that soon she would have pieces of plastic in her ears, complete with microphone and amplifier, and she would officially have to admit that she was handicapped.

And soon – very soon – she would have to tell her boss.

God, that would be the worst of it. She was already making an effort to avoid the man following his rejection weeks before. The last thing in the world she wanted was to become his personal pity project. She knew Grissom well enough to know that he was kind; he wouldn't hold this against her. He would fight for her job, and he would accept and protect her. He was a better supervisor than he suspected; but she didn't want a good supervisor. She wanted him to care for her without pity thrown into the mix. She wanted to get his friendship fairly, not by default or by guilt.

Hell, she didn't want to tell him at all.

But if she put what she wanted in one hand, and spat in the other, it was quite likely that one had would be dripping far sooner than the other. She had never received what she wanted; she got what she got, and life wasn't fair. She didn't expect it to be, but frankly she thought she'd had enough. When would she have her fair share of misery for this lifetime? And when would she get past the stupid, useless self-pity.

She passed by the locker room this evening and headed straight for Grissom's office. She'd learned that the best way to get through the tough stuff was to just get it done. He would know soon enough, she decided. She might as well get this over-with.

And yet, it wasn't as easy as it usually was to lean against his door jam and peek around to see if he was there. He was, of course, and buried behind a stack of folders that was at least six inches high. She watched as he sighed, took his glasses off, and rubbed at his closed eyes. He shook his head then, as though trying to remain alert, and went back to perusing the information in a folder.

"Griss?" she asked softly.

Nothing.

"Grissum?" she called out a bit louder.

Still nothing. She knew that he tended to get involved in his work, but this was ridiculous. She wasn't going to start yelling at the man to gain his attention. Instead, she stepped through the doorway to his office – something she never did without invitation – and walked right up to the desk.

When he saw her, he actually jumped. "Sara!"

"It's me," she said sarcastically. This visit was hard enough without his making it harder. "It has been since I came to the door."

"I didn't hear you," he muttered, and his face was strangely downcast. She might have noticed the expression, but his words took the breath from her. Not hearing wasn't something she was even willing to joke about.

"Yeah, well, I need to talk to you for a minute," she told him.

"Sara, I'm glad you came by. Please, come in and close the door."

Now that was a surprise. He hadn't invited her anywhere since before the explosion. In fact, he seemed almost as eager to avoid her – and everyone else for that matter – as she was to avoid him. Cautiously, she stepped back to the door and pulled it closed, then she took the seat across from his desk. Just as she was trying to find a way to tell him what she had found at her appointment, he spoke.

"Sara, I wanted to speak to you about this morning."

Her thoughts once more stopped in a track. "Sure," she said, thinking that he just might make this easier for her after all. "I wanted to talk to you about that."

"I don't think we should," he said curtly. Then, his voice softened. "Sara, I'd rather it not be known that I was at the clinic, and I certainly don't want anyone to know about the surgery. As I told you, it's minor. There's no reason to alarm anyone, and the last thing I need is for Ecklie to start getting into things. You know him; he'll take any weakness and exploit it."

Sara was taken aback. Given all that had happened that morning, she had honestly forgotten about running into Grissom. It wasn't that she didn't care – far from it – but that she simply had too much on her mind from her own visit with the doctor.

"If that's how you feel," she allowed, wondering if it were really that easy.

"It is," he told her simply. "Sara, I don't want a big deal made of this. It's nothing. Really. There's no reason to make it into something that it isn't."

Something in his statement caught her attention. "What's wrong?"

"It's not important. What's important is that this not become gossip for the locker rooms. I'm sure you understand."

Yes, she understood. She understood that he wasn't going to tell her a damned thing, and suddenly she didn't give a care. If he didn't want anyone's attention, then so be it. Further, she wouldn't be so weak as to concern him with her own disability. After all, if he could ignore health issues, he was setting quite a precedent. What was good for him was good for her; she wouldn't tell him a thing.

"Is that all?" she asked, not at all happy with the slight catch in her voice. She couldn't have said why it upset her so much that he'd cut off her interest before it had even begun. Perhaps it had to do with trust, or maybe just with pride. He should know better than to think she would run blabbing to anyone else about his health. She had more respect for him than that. She had more respect for herself. She also couldn't have pegged why she was so damned disappointed at not getting to talk over her own situation with her mentor. It wasn't as though he had been there for her anytime in the recent past. Hell, he hadn't been there for her for years. Still, she supposed that she had wanted to tell someone – anyone – and quite frankly she had nobody else to tell. This was something huge in her life, and yet there was not a single person who would care about it. No one. That bothered her more than she would admit.

"That's all," he told her. Then his gaze, which had never left her face throughout their discussion, seemed to intensify. "Unless you needed something. You came by, after all."

Too little, too late, she decided. "No," she lied. "There's nothing important."

"Why were you at the clinic?" he asked, and she almost thought there might be some genuine concern in his voice. Almost.

"Check up," she told him, which wasn't entirely a lie. It wasn't all of the truth, but it was as close as he was going to get. Her nerve had been thin coming into this discussion, and what little there had been was worn transparent by his uncaring demeanor. "It's not a big."

He nodded, but didn't look convinced. She really didn't care.

"If there's nothing else," she told him briskly, afraid that the knot in the back of her throat was going to give her away. Her eyes were burning, and she'd be damned if she'd cry over this situation at all, much less in front of him.

"No," he said thoughtfully.

"Then I'll get to work. I really need to change before assignments."

He nodded, and she left before he could even tell her good bye. Several deep breaths later she was next to her locker and trying to catch her breath. She would not cry. Not. She just wouldn't do it.

And she didn't. It took her a while to master the shaking sensation throughout her body, but she did it. Gradually the pain in her chest eased and her eyes were once more totally dry. Crisis averted; embarrassment delayed. With that small victory under her belt, she began to spin the dial on her locker. She had gone around three times before she realized that she had completely forgotten her combination.

It had been a hell of a week. Gil was only now coming to realize just how behind he had been as he tried to get things not only caught up, but far enough ahead that being out for a few days wouldn't cause the entire lab to crash. There were cases to tie up, files to manage, evidence to label, and court dates to reschedule. It was a tedious process, even working fifteen to eighteen hours a day. It was what was keeping him at his desk for hours at a time; hours like this one. He was on the opposite side now, his back to the door as he searched through a mental fog for what was next on his list of priorities. He hadn't slept more than occasionally since setting the date for his surgery.

As though he could sleep

The little time he spent in the field was an unqualified mess. He could only hear about half of the time, and even then the words tended to garble together. Speech reading was not as effective as he would have liked, and he developed a new appreciation for his mother's ability to manage it. Granted, she relied heavily on contextual clues and the pad of paper she was never without, but she still did more than he could hope to.

And yet he might have no choice. Even with the surgery, the best he could hope for was a return of most of his hearing and a delay of the inevitable. Otosclerosis wasn't curable, merely treatable. While treatment was absolutely necessary – immediately – if he wanted to retain any hearing at all, it wasn't a guarantee by any stretch of the imagination.

He wished it were.

So many things he wished. He wished that he had done this years before, when he'd first noticed the occasional lapses in consistent sound. He wished that he'd taken more time to enjoy the symphonies that he loved and the operas he respected. He wished that he'd listened to the birds a little more, and to the laughter of children rather than the screaming of suspects. He wished so much. He wished that he'd taken the time to know Sara before he'd become an old man who was losing his hearing. Hell, he just wished he could talk to her. The last week had been proof that he couldn't.

Granted, half of what he had happened between them had been a direct result of pure fear. He was afraid that she'd pity him, afraid that she'd let slip his secret. He was afraid that he'd never hear her voice again after the surgery. He'd never hear her say…

Well, it wasn't as though she really wanted to talk to him anyway. She'd done everything but quit in order to avoid him. He'd even attempted to talk to her, and she invariably walked away from his gentle attempts to gain her attention. Short of standing in front of her in a hallway or cornering her in the locker room, he really didn't have much choice about the situation. He didn't want to embarrass her, and truthfully he had no clue what he would say to her if he did.

But he wished he could figure it out.

His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder, and as he whirled around he was faced with the image which had been haunting his thoughts. She was dressed in jeans and a silk blouse, and her face was smudged with something white. Heaven knew what she'd been working on; he hadn't had a chance to look over her progress notes on the current case.

"You're in another world lately," she muttered as he put a hand over his heart to try to keep it from flying out of his chest. She had scared the hell out of him; it was especially hard for him to hear people approaching from behind him.

"What do you want?" he asked rather sharply. He was still recovering from the shock she'd given him, but he immediately regretted his tone at the look on her face. "Sorry," he added lamely. "I didn't mean it that way."

She just nodded. "I wanted to know if you've finished that request for Greg's computer program," she told him. "He'd ask you himself, but he's afraid you'll do physical damage if you're interrupted. Apparently you're developing quite a reputation for it."

He felt his ears heat, but was defensive nonetheless. "If you mean I'm testy when my work is interrupted, then I'm afraid I'm guilty."

"Requisitions are your work," she said pointedly. "So what's the status?"

It took him a moment to recall what she was asking about. He had dealt with some damned many requisitions in the past week that they had become one blurred whole. "I'll have to find it," he admitted. "What was the name again?"

"It's…" But her voice trailed off into nothing, while her lips continued to move at full speed. Unfamiliar with the topic, he had no context to follow. Frustrated with his limitations, he resorted to anger.

"Look, I'll find it myself," he said as he turned his back on Sara and with her the situation. "When I have it done, I'll page you."

He went back to work, doing his best to calm the rage which came whenever he realized that this might be permanent; he might not be able to do his job for much longer. He certainly wouldn't be able to hide his condition much longer.

A hand on his arm pulled him around, and he turned to face a Sara who was at least as furious as he felt. The words were unclear, but the expression was more than obvious. She wasn't one to tolerate being dismissed, and he wasn't going to get away with it this time.

"… aren't the only one with a job to do!"

Gratefully he caught the last few words of her tirade. "I know that," he said on a sigh. "I'm just… overwhelmed. Sara, really, I'll get back to you."

"I'll believe it when I see it," she grumbled, and finally turned her back.

He went briefly back to his work, and then some instinct caused him to turn around. He caught her eye then, and more than a hint of speculation was in her expression. She knew, he thought, and then immediately dismissed the possibility. The only one who might put the signs together was Catherine, and he'd been careful to stay out of her way. She alone knew his mother, and with her the possibility that he might someday lose his hearing as well. There were disadvantages to long-time friendships, and one of them was trying to keep secrets from someone who knew you better than you knew yourself. But Sara didn't fall into that category. He had kept her safely at a distance, and she had no way of knowing what he was going through now. It was the way things were; they way they had to be.

She stood there a moment longer, and once more he saw her lips move and yet heard nothing. Frustrated beyond measure, he turned back to his work, hoping she would take the implied dismissal at face value. She had to; he couldn't spell it out for her. He didn't want to.

After a few moments he was engrossed in his work, and thoughts of Sara were driven from his mind. He didn't see the look of comprehension appear on her face, or the sad acceptance that followed. He didn't see her final acknowledgement of the situation as she turned to walk down the hall, and he definitely didn't see the single tear which she cried for him. The tear she wouldn't – couldn't – cry for herself.


	4. And the Work Goes On

Chapter 4 

It was supposed to be a happy day. She hadn't remembered the plans in all of her own preoccupation, but walking into the break room brought the situation home in a hurry. The room was filled with bright balloons and streamers, and Catherine was standing in the chair to hang a bright banner which declared "Happy Birthday Greg!" She and the rest of night shift had been planning this for the last month, and she had completely let it slip her mind. The guilt took her by surprise, and gave her something more to focus on than her suspicions about her supervisor.

Sara was more than grateful that she'd already bought and wrapped Greg's gift, and the CD was sitting in her locker. She really didn't even recognize the name of the group, but the band on the cover had looked suitably disreputable, and the salesman had assured her that anyone with blue spiked hair would love it.

"You're here!" Catherine called back over her shoulder. "Thank God. Hand me that tape before I fall and break my neck. Lord knows we don't need another investigation on the schedule tonight; I think there must have been ten folders on Grissom's desk.

Absently, Sara handed the tape up to the elder woman and watched as the banner was secured. Catherine then jumped down to the floor with the same dancer's grace that she had always possessed and Sara had always envied. If she moved like that, would Griss…

There was no point in thinking along those lines, though. A glance at the clock told her that they would be swarmed with people in the next few minutes, so she retreated to her locker to get Greg's present. By the time she got back, not only had Greg made his appearance for his customary start-of-shift cup of coffee, but at least half a dozen others had arrived to wish him well, steal some cake, and drop off a gift or two. The room was loud and happy, and the exact opposite of Sara's mood. With a deep breath, she stepped into the break room and plastered a smile on her face. She felt like Barbie, but it would have to do.

"The kid's growing up," she said as she handed Greg his gift.

With a bashful smile – something totally at odds with the Greg she knew – he accepted the CD and obligingly tore off the paper. The grin on his face was enough to tug a genuine smile out of Sara as he pulled her into a quick, affectionate hug. "How did you know?" he asked with his expression nearly glowing. "This just came out a week ago! I was waiting for payday to get it."

"Now you can buy more hair gel instead," she told him, deadpan. He only grinned more widely and hugged her once more. For some reason, the gentle contact felt good. How long had it been since anyone had given her a hug? Despite the confusion of the room around her, the way all the voices seemed to blend together instead of making sense, she found her spirit's lifting. A face might be worth a thousand words, but a hug was apparently worth ten thousand. She felt worlds better than she had when she'd arrived.

"You okay?" he asked with a curious expression.

Sara became aware that she was not only tolerating Greg's open display of affection, but was actually hugging him back. She was further gone today than she thought. "Rough day," she explained with a smile that threatened to flip upside down at the soft compassion in his eyes. "I guess I needed a hug."

He squeezed again before letting her go. She stepped back and watched as other co-workers approached and gave him gifts, a hard time, or just a brief acknowledgement. Greg might be the resident clown, but he served a much more important purpose than many of them realized. Sara knew he was the one who often gave hope to them when there was none, and kept the mood light with his free-spirit attitude and careless nature. He was an element of balance in the lab, and in his way as important as Grissom and his experience, or even Ecklie and his politics. Everyone had their place, and she was glad to see that Greg was being recognized for his. One day a year, everyone deserved this.

Too quickly, it was time for shift to begin. The staff migrated back to their work areas, and Grissom came in with his handful of assignment sheets and stern demeanor. He acknowledged Greg with a quick "happy birthday", and even smiled when Greg snapped off a smart salute, but Sara wasn't oblivious to his missing the party. She didn't think it had a thing to do with paperwork, but rather with the fact that there were so many people there, and so many things going on at once. If her suspicions were true, then there were a lot of things that had fallen into place. She set about observing – what she was best at – to determine if she was correct.

Watching him carefully, she noted that he barely glanced at the sheets, instead focusing on each face as he addressed his team. She also noted that his attention shifted only when that person's did. When he was looking at Catherine, she glanced over at Warrick, and Grissom's eyes went there to follow the discussion. When Warrick referred to Nick, Grissom's glance followed once more. Always attentive, never wavering, and carefully focused, she realized that it was more than simply interest or even respect which earned them his undivided attention.

Grissom wasn't just watching their faces; he was watching lips. If she hadn't spent so damned much time in the last two weeks doing the same thing, she might have missed it. But she had learned that when voices were fuzzy, or blurred by the constant ringing in her ears, that watching expressions and words made the sounds make sense. She had felt like an observer at a tennis match on occasion, with her head turning this way and that, but when conditions were loud or more than one person was talking, she'd had to find a way to figure out what was being said. Her ears hadn't done it, so nearly automatically her eyes had taken over.

Apparently, she wasn't the only one relying on eyes to hear the story.

Catherine and Nick were paired together on a DB just outside the city line, and Warrick was assigned to a missing person reported from the Tangiers. That left herself and Grissom, and she wondered momentarily whether she would be solo while he shuffled paperwork or if he'd dare to be alone with her for ten seconds. Somehow, she thought the former was more likely.

"We're together," he said as he glanced over her way. "I need your help on a rape case from down on the strip."

She nodded. "Got it covered."

"Sara… this is a tough one. If you'd rather I assign Catherine…"

She shook her head automatically. "I can deal, Grissom. Professional distance all the way." She almost believed that until she read over the sheet. "Fifteen," she said softly.

"Yeah." He moved closer, and she noticed that he was within an arm's reach and yet he still didn't take his eyes from her face. Not her eyes; her mouth. He was watching every word she spoke. Her suspicions grew stronger by the second. "Runaway. She was looking for a job, and she got more than she bargained for."

Sara cocked her head sideways and then decided to test her theory while still feeling out the case. "So you don't think she put herself in the position deliberately?" she asked, turning towards the table and walking over to get some cake. Grissom followed, keeping her face in view. Interesting.

"I don't think that was the kind of job she was looking for," he told her. "She was dressed in overalls and a flannel shirt; I stress the word 'was'. The hospital has already run a kit on her, and it's probably on Greg's desk by now, but I need someone to talk to her. She sure as hell won't talk to me or brass, and Catherine…"

"Catherine's a mom," Sara said with understanding. "She's more maternal than objective when young girls are involved."

"Exactly."

Sara turned again, picking up a bottle of water to take a drink and then deliberately leaving it near her lips, partially obstructing Grissom's view. She wasn't playing with him – really – but a scientist didn't make a hypothesis based on one test of a theory. She was simply giving her research multiple trials; she had to be sure. "So you don't think I'll fall apart on this?" she asked.

His eyes narrowed for a moment, and she could almost see him putting the words together in his mind. "Hmm?" he asked, as though he had merely been distracted.

It was time for the final analysis. Moving her lips clearly, allowing no sound to come out, she formed the words, "Do you think I can handle this?"

His expression cleared and he seemed to relax. "I know you can," he said simply. "I'm heading down to the strip to work the scene, and you can meet me there once you finish the interview. She'll be in the hospital for a few days, or until they find her parents. She still hasn't given them a name or location."

"Whatever she ran from must be worse than a rape," Sara reasoned. She'd seen too much to believe otherwise. Unfortunately, she was almost to the point where she expected the worst.

"I don't doubt it," he admitted. Then he sighed heavily and for just a moment looked away from her. "Sara, I know that I tell you not to get too close, but…"

"What?"

"Brass says she's really scared. I guess that sounds trivial coming from me, but anything that shakes Brass has to be just this side of hell. I don't want you in over your head, but I think she will need a gentle touch."

"You don't think I'm gentle?" she asked, her tone was clearly sarcastic but she was too offended to care.

"I thing… maybe this time we'll have to get close, or she won't tell us anything. You care about victims, and yes, sometimes too much. But in this case I think she needs that. She doesn't need to be mothered, but she could use some righteous anger on her behalf. I don't think she has it for herself."

Sara released the breath she'd been holding. "I got it. When I finish at the hospital, did you want me here or at the scene?"

"Call me when you finish, and I'll let you know where I am. I don't know how long it will take."

She nodded at that. "Thanks, Grissom."

"For?" He looked confused.

She couldn't really tell him why she was grateful. Was it that – unknowingly or not – he'd just confirmed to her something that was deeply important to him? Was it that he was trusting her not to get in too deep when he knew she had in the past? Was she just grateful that he was willing to admit she was the right person for something, or even that he was willing to work with her? She had no idea; she just knew that she was grateful to him for… something. "For caring about a kid, I guess," she finally decided. "With all you've seen, it's so easy to forget they're people. I think… I know that I respect you more for treating the living differently from the dead."

"I think there was a compliment in there somewhere," he muttered dryly.

"There was. See you later, Grissom."

He nodded at her, but she didn't hear him say a word as she left the room and headed for her car, and then the hospital.

Grissom sealed the last evidence bag and tossed it in the storage container with the others. He had more blood, semen, and other bodily fluids in that box than he really wanted to admit. He tried to remind himself that this was his job – this was how they put away the bad guys. He tried not to remember that a fifteen-year-old girl had been at the center of this piece of hell.

He grabbed the box and took it to the Tahoe, grateful that he'd finished the scene before Sara had completed her part of the assignment. He really hadn't wanted her to see that. He hadn't much wanted to see it himself. He could take a corpse full of various larvae any day over the actual scene of a crime. His imagination was too good at piecing together the whole picture from the scattered pieces. He knew what had happened in that dingy room; he knew it, and he hated it.

He didn't bother with the radio on the way back to the lab. Music was in and out to him, and served only to remind him of what he was losing. Of all the things he would regret the loss of, music was high on the list. There was also the sound of birds in the spring, the cry of a jaw fly, and a child's delighted laughter. So many sounds, he decided, that he didn't want to lose. If all went well, he wouldn't. If. But he had learned a very long time ago that a person couldn't put stock in "if".

"If all ifs and buts were candy and nuts, what a very merry Christmas this would be," he muttered softly. He didn't bother with citing a source; no one was there to hear it.

He pulled in to the parking lot just as his cell phone began to ring. He flipped it open with one hand as he turned off the Tahoe with the other. "Grissom."

"Where are you?"

It was so like Sara. No preamble, no explanation, and no excuses. "At the lab," he answered in kind, trying to make the call as brief as possible. Despite having the unit up as loud as possible, phones still gave him considerable difficulty.

"Say again," she requested. Then, after a short pause, "My battery must be low; I'm getting a lot of static."

Grissom didn't hear static from his end, but he repeated his answer more clearly, and asked her to join him at the lab. She agreed, and none too soon he was flipping the phone closed. Within half an hour, he was tackling the box of evidence with more precision than speed. He didn't want to miss anything as he prepared the evidence for Trace.

"Hey."

He glanced over his shoulder as Sara walked in. She was dressed in jeans and an old seventies-style blouse. It wasn't what she'd been wearing when he had seen her that morning, but stranger things had happened than a woman changing clothes on shift. He really didn't think much past that. "Can you grab that dish?" he asked as he gestured with his expression towards the counter to his right.

Wordlessly, Sara grabbed the requested dish and held it out automatically as he swabbed the inside of one of his collection tubes and then rubbed the substance – semen in this case – over the brown gel in the dish. It would take a couple of days in the incubator, but soon they would know if the man who had produced this fluid had anything growing in him besides pure evil. A disproportionately large number of sex offenders had various sexually transmitted diseases, and some were even registered with the health department. He would take his clues anywhere he could get them.

For her part, Sara didn't say a word as she assisted him with transferring evidence into appropriate containers, marking and labeling items, and generally making his job a lot quicker and easier. This was probably one of the things he enjoyed most about working with her. She didn't demand a lot of conversation, and she didn't press him for details on a case where each and every piece of evidence was proof that a child had been attacked. In fact, until he was ready to initiate the conversation, Sara said nothing at all.

As they bagged the last of the evidence, she gave him an encouraging expression and he took a deep breath before he began. "Thanks," he said simply.

"It's my job," she told him with a shrug.

He shook his head. "Not just the help; the lack of inquisition."

"Yeah, well, I've talked enough today," she told him softly. "And listened too much."

"How bad?" he asked, knowing she was referring to the hospital interview. He really didn't need to ask, but he wanted to give her an opportunity to talk if she needed to. Sara took these cases to heart – as did he, when children were involved – and he knew it couldn't have been easy for her.

"She'll be admitted for a few days," Sara said, her voice monotone. "They're taking her to the OR later today so they can sew up some things. I guess the docs got the bleeding under control, but wanted some antibiotics in her before they did much more."

Grissom nodded; it wasn't an unusual procedure.

"She was able to describe him, at least for the most part. Oh, and you were right. She wouldn't let any man get within screaming distance of her, not even Brass. They finally figured out that she wasn't just faking the fear when she threw up all over everyone."

Crossing his arms and leaning a hip against the counter, Gil stopped and looked at Sara. There had been something in her voice beyond the detached recitation of fact. She had him worried. He didn't know what he would do when – if – those auditory clues were lost to him. They had often turned the tide in an investigation, just as they now told him that his CSI wasn't nearly as calm as she appeared.

"The MO is what we expected. High school student left home because her stepfather was beating her mom and mom wouldn't leave. She made it this far from God-knows-where – I'm still running missing persons reports, but we won't know anything from pictures because her face is a mess. Anyway, when she got to the strip some nice man told her that he had a place for her to stay. Once the doors were closed… well, let's just say that she won't believe that line twice. I guess someone finally acknowledged the screams, because she said he finally ran off and left her. She didn't remember much after that. God, I'm surprised she stayed conscious that long."

"How serious are the injuries?" he asked. He wasn't referring to the normal battering that most sexual assaults caused, but anything outstanding which might affect her long-term recovery or their investigation.

"Concussion, possible internal bleeding," Sara listed. "One arm is broken, and she has swelling in one side of her pelvis that may indicate fracture. They aren't seeing any brain damage in the CAT scan, but they won't be able to get her into MRI until morning."

He sighed, and wished that any of it had been a surprise. But, he had seen the scene. He had known before he asked what type of condition she'd likely be in. He had seen the wrecked room, the torn covers on the bed, the overturned chair, and most of all the blood. "I'm sorry," he told her softly. He hated to have sent Sara into that.

She shrugged her shoulder, but the look in her eyes was at odds with the casual motion.

He let out the breath that he had subconsciously been holding. There wasn't going to be a scene after all; not from Sara anyway.

"Grissom?"

He inclined his head to show that he was listening.

"I really want to get this guy," she said simply. "For her… and for every other scared kid out there who trusts a little too much. Shit, that kind of trust should be guarded, not exploited. We can't let this guy get away."

Gil nodded his agreement. "Well, we have more than sufficient evidence, regardless of whether or not she decides to file charges. She's a minor, so the DA can do that for her, and if we can lock this in with DNA and priors – which I'll be willing to bet is in here somewhere – she won't even have to think about taking the stand."

"It'll be harder without a name," Sara reminded him.

"So let's get one. How long would you say she's been on her own?"

She thought a moment. "Not long; she isn't paper thin yet. I'd say under two weeks, but three at the outside."

"Any accent to speak of?"

Sara shook her head. "Hard to say; her mouth is so swollen that the words weren't distinguishable."

"Okay, then we start in the middle. Two-mile radius, check for missing persons fitting her approximate age and height. Then we'll run ten, then twenty, and so on until we find something that fits. If her face isn't close enough to compare, we'll look at last names – likely to be different if her mother remarried – and there's always hair color in case she hasn't dyed it."

"And fingerprints," Sara added. If she's from California, most of the kids are printed in grade school as part of the ID programs."

"So we get to work," he decided.

"Overtime," she told him, but there was no trace of her usual grin.

"We'll find him," Gil told her softly. Hell, nothing else in his life was going right at the moment; something had to, eventually.


	5. The Rollercoasters

So many lovely reviews that I don't know where to start! I'm so glad that this story is being enjoyed… so often when I write, it's for myself, and I'm amazed that anyone else cares to read it, much less review. And the thought that someone would not only review, but REGISTER in order to review… just… wow. You humble me. Yes, there will be plenty of fluff in chapters to come. I am a hopeless, shameless romantic and I can't resist a good love story. Still, from the point where the story begins, there's a lot of trust that has to be built and a lot of burned bridges to rebuild before they can get to this point. I'm not working from an outline… just writing what feels write. Thankfully I survived to the point of spring break, so I'll have at least a few days to think and write and just try to figure out where they're going. I may not have the path clear, but they always wind up together in the end… that's just how it should be. 

Again, my thanks for the reviews. You can have no clue how much they mean to me… at least as much as a week without students!

Chapter 5 

Sara stood beneath the scalding spray of water and let it mix with shampoo and tears.

Another one, she thought. One more child who would never get to finish being a child. She was an adult now, in the worst possible way. All innocence had been stolen from her in one bad decision, by one evil man. It was beyond unfair; it was criminal.

Grissom seemed certain that they would find the man who'd done it, but Sara was never so sure. The jerks couldn't be human, but they could sure as hell cover their tracks. Nevertheless, she had gone home just to burn off some of the energy that wouldn't settle while Greg performed his magic in the lab. She had run for almost five miles before she'd felt remotely calm enough to sit, and it had left her soaking with sweat and gritty with salt.

She stayed in the shower until the water was chilly and her skin was beginning to wrinkle. She wished she could stay there forever, with nothing but the sound of falling water around her and the unconditional safety of being locked in her own bathroom, within her own home. She knew that safety was an illusion – had seen it all to many times – but it was an illusion she needed at that moment.

Shortly after leaving the bathroom wrapped in a soft robe and her hair up in a towel, she heard her cell phone. Something about the high-pitched squeal seemed to cut through her hearing loss more than any other tone. She dug through the miscellaneous stuff on her dresser to find where she had laid the phone, and glanced at the caller ID.

Grissom.

She knew it must be important, because he was the only person she knew who liked talking on a phone less than she did. For her, it was difficult to hear. For him, it must be even worse. "Sidle."

"We got him."

Three words, and certainly not the one's she had expected.

"What?"

She could hear the laughter in his voice when he deferred. "I'll talk to you about it down at the station. Brass is going to start the interrogation in about an hour; I thought you'd want to be there."

"Damned straight!" she told him clearly, already reaching for a shirt to pull on as she dropped her robe. "I'll be there in twenty."

"See ya then," he said.

She didn't bother answering, but instead she tossed the closed phone onto her bed and fumbled through a drawer to grab some jeans. She didn't even bother with socks and shoes, grabbling sandals on her way out the door. She combed her hair at the first red light she came to, and stuck a rubber band in it while sitting at the second. She wasn't worried about her appearance – the whole team had certainly seen her looking worse – but she hated to have the soggy strands sticking to her face. In retrospect, she decided that she probably should have taken a minute more to dry her hair, but it was too late for her to worry about it.

Frankly, she wasn't sure what had her mood higher. Was it the capture of a man who deserved to be jailed, if not castrated? Was it the fact that Grissom had called her even when he didn't have to, letting her get some closure on the case? Was it just the Nevada sun, bright and hot overhead as she hadn't seen it in a long time? She wasn't sure, but she did know that she felt like she was on a roller coaster. She had been on an absolute low, was now as high as she could go, and was well aware that there would be a stomach-twisting fall on the other side of the high. There always was, but to feel this way, she would deal with it.

Sara pulled her ID from her glove compartment as she headed for the doors to the police station. A quick flash of the plastic card was all it took to get her past the officer at the desk, and it didn't take her long to find Grissom from there.

Without thought, she walked up to him with a grin she knew must be silly, and gave him a very uncharacteristic hug. Arms around his neck, body pressed to his, she gave a quick squeeze and then kissed him on the cheek. When she pulled back, he looked like she had grown a third head. Now that she thought of it, an hour before, a third head would have probably been more likely than the display she'd just given.

"Sorry," she told him with another grin and an excitement that had her nearly bouncing up and down. "I just can't believe we got him this quickly.

Grissom shook his head, his expression going from pure shock to a sort of tolerant exasperation. She couldn't blame him. She knew that she must look like a ten year old kid who had been locked in a candy store for a week, but she couldn't fight it. Life had given her precious little to celebrate in the previous year, and she would take what she could get.

"His DNA was everywhere," the elder CSI told her. "And he had a record. Once Greg got us a name, the address was easy to come by. We also found a good deal of evidence in his home, from bloody clothing to our girl's school ID. It's pretty much open and shut, even if the guy lawyers-up, and that's not likely. Apparently, he's missed his last meeting with his patrol officer, so he was already in more trouble than he needed."

"He won't be getting out for a very long time," Sara agreed with a grin. The joy of making sure not only that this man paid – but that he wouldn't have the opportunity to do this to anyone else – had her so euphoric that she wasn't even noticing what was going on around her. She had missed the gathering of several officers around the door of the room, and even the presence of Jim Brass as he approached the interrogation booth with a couple of uniforms.

"Let's hope not," Brass told her with a wink.

Much to her disappointment, she was relegated to the observation area while Grissom managed the interrogation. It went smoothly, although there were several instances when he seemed to falter, as though he wasn't sure what the suspect had answered. Jim jumped into the quiet periods as though they were planned, and she doubted that she would have even noticed if she hadn't been looking for it.

As predicted, the man admitted to everything. It was almost too easy, she thought, as she exited her room and waited at the door for Grissom. He stepped out looking tired but happy, and it was all she could do to refrain from another emotional display. She was sure he wouldn't appreciate it. Still, there was something of common ground in knowing that they shared something – even something as lousy as a hearing loss – that made her feel just a little more comfortable with him. Perhaps it was just knowing more about him for once than he knew about her – she wasn't sure – but he seemed less intimidating today. He was more approachable, even if it was only in her mind.

"Dinner," she told him, clearly not making it a question or suggestion, but a demand. "You've been here all day, and I know we're both off tonight. You need food, and I'm paying."

He shook his head, obviously refusing the offer. "I just want to get some sleep," he told her.

"Fine, but get it after you eat," she argued.

"Sara…"

"No!" she insisted. "This time deserves celebrating." She glared at him for a moment before it occurred to her that he was probably trying to avoid her so that he didn't have to keep hiding his hearing loss. She could relate to that; crowded places gave her trouble as well. "We'll go to Molly's," she told him, referring to the small diner that nearly all of the CSIs tended to frequent. "I'll even call in some of the team if you want chaperones! I just… Grissom, I need to celebrate this."

She waited hopefully, and finally saw his arguments deflate as he let go a sigh. "Fine," he agreed, sounding like he was being sentenced to execution rather than a quiet dinner. "I'll meet you at Molly's in half an hour. I need to run by the lab and grab some things first."

"Fair enough," she told him, her smile back in position. Then, after looking at the dread on his face, she couldn't help but laugh. "It's okay," she told him. "I don't bite, and I won't make a pass at you. I promise."

She watched him leave without losing the smile. It was a step, she decided. They just might be back on the path to being friends. At least, if she had anything to say about it they were. Somehow, she had a feeling that he'd need all the friends he could get.

Gil Grissom took another bite of his steak and chewed in appreciation. He really hadn't realized just how hungry he was until he'd begun to eat. Across the table from him, Greg sat next to Sara and drowned his fries in at least a cup of ketchup. It looked disgusting to him, but probably no more so than his steak appeared to Sara.

Sara. The woman was full of surprises. Just the fact that she'd talked him into this dinner was something he hadn't yet figured out. He had done his best in recent months to stay as far from his team as possible, lest they figure out why he was suddenly asking them to repeat themselves and determine his secret. Further, he avoided public places like the plague, annoyed at the interfering noise and the difficulty hearing others. And yet, here he was, watching Sara eat a banana split while Greg devoured a hamburger, and actually enjoying himself. He'd forgotten how quiet Molly's could be; it was one reason that the team liked it so well.

He told himself that Greg's presence really wasn't a security blanket. Sara had certainly been joking about needing a chaperone. There had never been anything romantic between them, however much moments like he'd had earlier that day – Sara pressed against him chest-to-toe with a glorious smile on her face – had become the stuff of his dreams. The thing was, he could hear her in his dreams. The same could not be said in the flesh. At least, not all the time.

But he hadn't been able to tell her no. Why was that? He supposed it had just been the pure, youthful excitement in her eyes. How long had it been since getting the bad guy had affected him so deeply? Sure, he'd been young and idealistic once, but time and experience tended to put a hard shell on an otherwise soft heart. He'd learned not to get too close because it nearly always ended in a painful disappointment. But Sara wasn't there yet. She still had room to hope, and for this one night he had needed to share it.

Greg's birthday had provided him with the perfect opportunity. He hadn't brought a gift for the party, so he'd invited Greg to come along to dinner instead. If his presence served as a buffer between himself and Sara, then that was just an added bonus. It wasn't as though he couldn't control his own thoughts and desires; but having a witness sure as hell made it easier.

"I can't believe you're eating that," he finally told her, his expression far more disgusted than he really was. "The sugar will keep you up all day."

She gave a shrug. "I'm off tomorrow. Remember?"

"I make the schedules," he reminded her. "Still, all that sugar…"

"She can use a few pounds," Greg chimed in, and then looked as though someone had kicked him – or he expected to be kicked. "I mean, you don't eat very much," he added with a blush.

"I don't need much," Sara said with a shrug. "And I do eat healthy – a lot healthier than that slab of cow you're enjoying so much."

Gil made a show of carefully cutting the medium rare steak, brandishing it before her like a sword, and then eating the chunk with a feigned look of ecstasy on his face. Sara shook her head with a smile, Greg nearly choked on a fry, and for the first time in a long time he felt almost human. He wasn't an old man who was going deaf and trying to hide it so that he could keep his job; he was just a man out with friends, enjoying a meal, and celebrating something that had finally gone right. It felt damned good.

"It's your arteries," she told him with a righteous sniff.

Greg reached over with his spoon and stole a bite from her bowl. "Um, Sara, this is the real deal. You're getting at least as much cholesterol from that ice cream as he's getting from the steak."

"Mind your own business, Mister 'make that a double order of fries'," she told him.

"I'm young… I can take it," he said with a mischievous grin.

"You're a year older now," she said as she elbowed his ribs. "Get used to it."

"I'm only a day older," he argued with a hurt expression. "It just so happens that day is an anniversary of my celebrated birth."

Grissom laughed along with them, enjoying the byplay between the two of them. They got along so naturally, very much like brother and sister. There was no tension between them, sexual or otherwise. They teased one another in good humor, beat up on one another for fun, and he knew very well that they would back one another until death. It was refreshing, really. So many friendships he saw were superficial – hell, half the friendships he saw ended in either murder or suicide – so seeing something solid between two friends was a relief. People _could_ get along. Wonders would never cease.

And then, within the course of a moment, Gil turned to ice. He watched as their playful banter quieted, although their faces and mouths were moving as quickly and with as much animation as before. There was no tinkle of silverware in the background, and no crashes of activity from the kitchen. He couldn't hear the waitress offering something to the couple at the next booth, and he couldn't hear the sound of his own breathing. His heartbeat though… his heartbeat seemed loud enough to be heard by half of Nevada. He wasn't hearing it – not really – but feeling it as it pounded in a panicked staccato against his ribs.

Sara's smiling face turned to his, and she must have caught his look of fear. Her expression became more serious, and to his great relief he was able to pick out the words she spoke. It was almost as though she was enunciating the speech just for his benefit.

"You look tired. Should we get the rest of this to go?"

"Please," he answered. Then, in a desperate plea for time, "If you can take care of this, I'm going to the restroom."

She nodded. "I've got you covered."

He saw a confused expression on Greg's face, but he didn't stick around to deal with it. Instead, he made his way to the restroom and carefully locked himself into one of the two stalls until he was able to breathe normally again. He replayed the events of the last few moments in his mind, wondering if they suspected. One of the greatest hazards of working with a team of trained investigators was that hiding anything was a virtual impossibility.

Vaguely he wondered just how long he could hide in the restroom until Greg and Sara became suspicious. He hadn't looked at his watch when he'd come in, so he didn't know how long he stood there until he heard his name called.

"Grissom?"

He gave a relieved sigh at the sound of Greg's voice. "Here," he said simply. "Give me a minute."

"You've been in here ten," Greg told him with a concern that was far more serious than Greg's traditional demeanor. "You sick?"

"A little," Gil lied, but only partially. This entire experience had only served to make him nauseous. "I'm just over-tired," he explained. "I should have gone home. I'm too old to pull double shifts and then party afterwards."

"I'll tell Sara you're okay," Greg said. "I don't think she'll leave until she sees you, though."

Of course she wouldn't, especially after he'd told Greg he was sick. What the hell had he been thinking? His lies had become so automatic and subconscious that he didn't even mentally check them for consequences before blurting them out. He sighed again – an unnerving habit of late – and opened the door to the bathroom stall. He didn't have to fake the cold sweat which he washed from his face in the sink, and a single look in the mirror told him that his pallor would be interpreted as illness as well. It was amazing how fear and sickness closely resembled one another.

"Can I get you anything?" Greg asked.

Grissom startled; he'd forgotten the younger man was still there. Taking him at his word, he'd expected him to go talk to Sara.

"I'm fine," Gil told him as he dried his face with a paper towel. "I'm on my way out."

Greg gave a nod and then left the room. Gil took a couple of deep breaths to fortify himself – that had simply come too close – and left the room as well. Not surprisingly, he found Sara waiting outside the restroom with foam boxes and a concerned expression.

"Thanks," he told her as he reached out for her to hand him his box.

Sara shook her head. "No, not this time," she told him cryptically. "You're as white as a ghost. I'll drive you home."

"Sara…"

She glared at him, and any gratefulness he'd felt at her clear formation of words in his time of need was entirely extinguished. "For once, will you just stop being the boss and try letting someone help you?"

He stood for a moment, his stomach churning. He didn't know if it was the nerves which had developed, his lack of sleep, or perhaps the unaccustomedly rich meal, but he was legitimately sick now. "Fine," he muttered.

She gave a nod that looked entirely too self-satisfied, and he preceded her to his Tahoe. He didn't have to be told to give her his keys, but did it on his own. Her look of approval made him feel like a child, but he was too queasy to care. A throb had begun behind his eyes, and suddenly he realized just where the sick feeling had come from. When he closed his eyes he saw sparkling, moving dots.

A migraine. This was just what he needed. It shouldn't have surprised him – stress had always triggered them for him – but he couldn't help but be bitter about the ironic timing. It was bad enough that his hearing was in and out, but his vision would be the same way if he didn't get to his medication.

Sara had already gotten in the vehicle, and she leaned between the bucket seats to find something behind her. He resisted the urge to tell her to hurry, and was grateful when she sat back up and handed him two large, plastic evidence bags. "If you puke, use the bag," she told him. "Just pretend you're on an airplane."

In spite of the situation, his embarrassment, and the nauseous pain he was feeling, Grissom cracked a smile. Only Sara would be high-and-mighty enough to tell her boss to puke in a bag when he was in his own car.


	6. Guess What I Know?

Well folks, here it is… the moment you've all been waiting for… Sara and Grissom spending the night together! Damn – I've still got this rated PG… oh well. I hope you enjoy it anyway…

Chapter 6 

At least he'd only gotten sick once on the ride to his townhouse. Frankly, Sara was very proud of herself for not throwing up herself. She could handle just about anything in the field, but there was something about watching another person become ill that tended to make one… well… ill.

And Sara was only a little guilty when she let Grissom tie the plastic bag and dispose of it once they were inside. After all, she'd be no good to him if she was as sick as he. So she followed him in, made sure the door was secure, and followed his instructions to find the medication he needed. She'd only seen him in the middle of a migraine once before, and that had been one time too many.

Finally she got him settled on his couch – he refused to go to bed, although that's what she was sure he needed – and found him a blanket. He'd spoken only a few words since coming in, and had responded to her words even less, but she couldn't be sure if he wasn't hearing her or if speaking was just too painful for him at the moment. So she settled into the silence and watched him. At least, she tried.

The ringing that was ever present in her ears became nearly deafening when there was no other sound to concentrate on. She'd learned not be in quiet places when she had the choice. Every once in a while they were on a crime scene that was deathly silent, but since speaking with her doctor she'd begun to carry her iPod in her pocket, and she wasn't above playing music to drown out the high-pitched hum.

She would have done that now, but she wanted to be able to hear Grissom if he needed something. Truthfully, that was why she'd insisted on bringing him home. He had looked absolutely awful. She had realized when she'd done it that she would effectively strand herself there until she decided to call a cab back to Molly's, but she was more concerned about his well being than her own. It was a switch, really; she'd never had anyone she cared enough for to worry about. What did that say about her?

She wasn't altogether sure, but she did know that she cared now, like it or not. As much as she often wanted to, the feelings she had for Grissom did not come with an "off" switch. They didn't respond to her own commands, or Grissom's indifference, or even the berating insults she gave herself after a particularly exasperating conversation with the inflexible man. And it wasn't about mushy stuff, or unrealistic expectations, or anything else. The hell of it was that she did know his faults, and she loved him anyway. She knew he could be a jerk, that he was emotionally unavailable, and he was unwilling to accept even the most involuntary of weaknesses. But he was also gentle, and honest, and he had a way of making her feel like someday – with his help – she could figure out why the world was the way it was. He gave her reassurance that she was worthy of… something. So long as he was willing to tolerate her presence, in any capacity, she knew that she had some value. In the back of her mind she knew that it was unhealthy to look for her self-worth in someone else's opinion, but it wasn't something she had a choice about. He had been the first person to really believe in her, so she had never quite shaken the feeling that he would be the only one who believed in her.

Curled up on an oversized black, leather chair which matched the couch he was lying on, Sara propped her head on one hand and just watched. She wasn't sure why he was allowing it, but she was grateful. If he forced her to leave, then she would worry. Hell, she was worried enough as it was. Intellectually she knew that a migraine was simply a severe headache, but seeing a level of pain that could incapacitate a grown man still sent chills up her spine.

A glance at the clock on the wall told her that she'd been there for more than an hour. She hoped that the medication he'd taken – something that went under his tongue, rather like a nitro pill – had taken effect. She supposed it must have because his face was a little more relaxed, even if his posture was still tense.

"Griss?" she said quietly. If he was asleep, she didn't want to wake him, but if he wasn't then she wanted to know he was okay.

"Hmm?" The grunt was quiet and very noncommittal. At least she knew he wasn't sleeping.

It was all she could do to stay awake herself. She'd pulled a long shift – nearly twelve hours – and had then run five miles before getting the call that had sent her back to work. It was pushing six in the evening, and she'd been awake since two the previous afternoon. She didn't mind missing sleep, but usually it was her body's messed up internal clock and not her job that caused it. "How you doing?" she asked.

"Better," he admitted, but his voice didn't sound it. Granted, his color was better than it had been, but it had been improving since he'd gone horizontal.

"Anything I can do for you?" she asked.

There was no answer.

"Griss?" she tried again.

Again, he remained silent.

"Grissom!" she said in a louder voice, moving from the chair to touch his arm. It terrified her that one moment he'd been answering questions and the next he appeared to pass out. It wasn't until he jumped under her touch and his eyes flew open in clear panic – only to slam closed at even the dim lighting of his living room – that she remembered his inconsistent hearing. Sometimes he heard her, and sometimes he didn't. She didn't understand that, as her hearing was always a little muddled, but that was how his seemed to work. For him, it was all or nothing.

"I'm fine," he told her, and his voice was shaking.

She couldn't have said what told her, but she knew very well that he couldn't hear a word she might say, at least not then. With his eyes closed, he couldn't see her either. Somehow, the thought of such isolation when dealing with such intense pain was unforgivable. Instinctively, she slipped her hand into his.

He didn't pull away. His hand tightened as though he appreciated the touch, and she saw him relax in the slightest degree. She didn't speak then – knew it wouldn't be of any use – but knelt there beside the couch and held his hand. It was all she could do.

An eternity later, his eyes slid slowly open. She saw comprehension there although she didn't understand its source. "Can you hear me now?" she asked.

Briefly he looked panicked again, but then he simply shook his head. She squeezed his hand to let him know she was with him, and she waited. Sometime in the waiting, she lifted her other hand to his forehead as a mother would do to a child, checking for fever. His skin was cool and damp, and his eyes didn't open at the touch. She left her hand there.

When her legs cramped, she slipped down into a crossed-legged position which was more comfortable. She left her hands where they were – one on his head and one in his hand – and at some point the fatigue she'd been fighting finally won. She leaned her head down to the couch and slipped into an exhausted sleep, sitting up.

Gil had no clue how long he'd been lying there, pretending to sleep, before it finally happened. He did know that the deception was over. He had been speech reading off and on for years – initially because it helped him with the job, and later due to his hearing – and he had clearly understood her words. She had plainly asked if he could hear her, and he had told her no. Why he had been honest was still a mystery, so he decided to chalk it up to pained delusion. But whatever his reason, Sara knew.

The sleep he got was fitful, as it always was under the influence of the Imitrex. He hated the disgusting pills, and he avoided them like the plague. Usually, if he got to them soon enough, a couple of Excederine would fend off the worst of the pain. It normally didn't come to this. But then, there had been nothing normal about this day.

When he finally surfaced from the shallow depths of sleep, he became aware of two things. First, he smelled oranges. Right on the heels of that discovery was the recognition of the warmth he held in his hand. He cracked his eyes the slightest bit, letting in as little light as possible, and while every object seemed to have a halo behind it, the stabbing pain had abated.

It wasn't an illusion. Sara's hand was in his, and her head was resting on the couch near his face. That was where the orange scent was coming from, he realized. He decided that she must use a citrus shampoo.

The guilt he felt was nerve wracking. Here she was, taking care of him, and he'd done nothing but lie to her. She had brought him home, nursed him to the best of her ability, and he had repaid her by holding her so that she couldn't leave the floor. She had to be as exhausted as he was, and yet she sat there clutching his hand even as he held hers. The world as he knew it simply didn't apply; nothing made sense.

Her head lifted slowly, startling him. He had thought she was asleep. As her eyes opened, she gave him a tired smile, and he realized that he hadn't been wrong. She looked confused for just a moment, squeezed his fingers as though to make sure he was real, and then looked him in the eye. "Can you hear me?" she asked.

Her words had never sounded so sweet. "Yeah," he told her.

She didn't say anything more, but she did remove her hand from his in order to stretch in a fashion that seemed entirely too feline. Once she'd done that, she gave him another smile. "How's your stomach? Think you can eat?"

"Maybe toast," he told her.

"Dry," she agreed. "Either that or saltines." She looked at him with undeniable mirth in her eyes. "At least it works for women who are pregnant."

"Toast," he repeated. "I have some of that butter spray stuff in the fridge."

She nodded and stood to go into the kitchen. He listened gratefully to the domestic sounds of hands being washed, the refrigerator opening and closing, and the toaster lever going down. Simple sounds – common sounds – and yet to him they were like music. He didn't know how long he would have them, so every one was precious.

He took the opportunity to use the restroom while she was in the kitchen, and to brush his teeth as well. By the time he got back to the kitchen, she had a plate of toast waiting for him and a cold bottle of water beside it.

"Do you need a couple of these?" she asked as she held up the green Excederine bottle.

"Yeah, thanks," he told her as he took the offered pills. "Once I knock it down, I don't let it get back up."

"A good plan," she agreed. "So, you're feeling better?"

He figured she knew the answer to that. "I don't think I could have felt much worse," he admitted. "Yeah, I'm better. Thanks for staying."

She gave a shrug. "Seemed like the thing to do," she said with a wink.

"Lousy way to spend your day off," he said, then took a bite of the toast.

"There are worse things. I think I had a better day than you did."

"No doubt," he admitted, and had to smile.

"So, are you ready to talk about it?" she asked.

"It?" She glared at him, and he knew that the time for hiding was over. "It," he said with resignation.

"There are times you can't hear at all," she commented, opening the conversation effectively and reminding him that she was indeed as good at her job as he'd known she was.

"It's called Otosclerosis," he told her simply. "It's hereditary, and it's progressive. You're right, sometimes I can't hear at all. Other times, I hear every sound just as clear as I ever did." He sighed as he met her eyes. "And I never know from one minute to the next which it will be."

"Is that what the surgery is about?" she asked.

He nodded. "If they remove the extra tissue before it solidifies, then most of my hearing should be salvageable."

"What kind of risk does that have? I mean, bones of the ear are practically microscopic."

"Substantial," he admitted. "But the risk of not having it is guaranteed deafness, probably within the next year. I'm not giving up my hearing without a fight."

She nodded her agreement. "And were you going to tell anyone?" she asked. Her expression was casual, but there was a bite in her voice.

"I didn't want to worry anyone," he said, which was half the truth. The rest, of course, was that he didn't want their pity. "I know I'll have to tell Catherine. She'll be covering my workload on the shift until I recover from the surgery. And, if the surgery doesn't go well, she'll be taking over my job."

Sara's head snapped up. "What?"

"I can't do my job without hearing," he admitted on a sigh. "I've already given up the majority of my field work, and all it's accomplished is making me hate what I do. I'm not a paper pusher; I'm a scientist, a criminalist. I need to be out there, not stuck behind some desk trying to make the facts and figures balance out. I don't want to check other people's work; I want to do the work myself."

"And if you can't have what you want, then you won't take anything," she said. She looked irritated with him, and he didn't understand that.

"I can't be what I'm not," he said simply.

"How will you manage," she asked, and once more her eyes were averted. He hoped this wasn't the beginning of the dreaded pity.

"The townhouse is free and clear," he said quietly. "I've invested well, and it isn't as though I've spent a fortune on entertainment or frills. I can get through the next ten years relatively easily, and after that I have retirement, social security… I'll get by."

"Gil Grissom sitting around his townhouse growing old," Sara said bitterly. "Not one chance in hell."

"I can't work if I can't hear," he said in frustration. "You've seen how… complicated it is. You must have seen it, or you wouldn't have picked up on it."

"Yeah, well, let's just say I was looking for it," she told him cryptically. He wanted to pursue the thought, but she went on. "You know you can't just _sit_. It's not you, Grissom."

"Well, the goal is to repair the damage and stay at work," he reminded her.

"What about hearing aides or something?" she asked.

"Aides amplify," he said as he shook his head. "That only works with nerve damage. If the actual mechanism of the ear is affected, hearing aides are useless."

Sara nodded. "I didn't think of that."

"No reason you should have," he said, and oddly found himself trying to comfort her. "I've dealt with this for a long time, Sara. My mother lost her hearing when I was eight, and I've always known it was a possibility. I tried ignoring it, and all that did was delay treatment. It's time for me to face this once and for all."

"Your mom is deaf?" she asked.

He nodded. "Completely."

"I never knew that."

He smiled slightly. "It's not something you advertise," he said simply. "She's adjusted, and her life accommodates it. If it comes to that, I'll do the same thing. I just… don't want it to come to that."

She nodded. "I'm glad I know," she said softly. "I mean, if you need someone to talk to, at least you don't have to do this alone."

He shrugged and tried to ignore the fact that she was right, and deep in his soul he was grateful. "Sara, I don't want anyone else to know. Catherine has to, but I don't want this spread through the labs."

She looked insulted for a moment, and then resigned. "I suppose Ecklie would have a field day with it," she reasoned.

"To say the least."

"I won't say a word, but I still think you should. Our team… Griss, they need to know. This explains a lot, it really does."

"It's my business, Sara," he admonished. "I can deal with you knowing, but I don't want it to be general gossip. If the surgery goes well, nobody needs to know. And if it doesn't, well then they'll all know anyway. For now, let's just leave it as it is."

"As it is," she muttered.

"Thank you."

"I didn't do anything," she complained. Then her eyes snapped up to his. "What can I do?" she asked. "Is there anything… I mean, if nobody knows, is there something you need done or… hell, I don't know."

He had to smile at her. "Well, beings you know… a ride home from the hospital might be nice. I don't know how my hearing will be afterwards, but the doctor said my balance would be off. I'd rather not deal with cabs if I don't have to."

"You've got it," she said, and looked absolutely relieved. "I'll drive you there too if you want," she said. "It'll save you the cab fare, and you won't have to leave your Tahoe in the lot."

"I'd appreciate that," he admitted. "Thank you."

She shrugged one shoulder. "It's not that big of a deal. What day do I need to have off?"

"The surgery will be Monday."

"I'll sign a leave form."

He shook his head. "I'll put it down as comp time," he offered. "I sure as hell owe you enough of that. You don't declare half of your overtime; it's about time you got some compensation."

"Whatever's easiest. I'm just… glad I can help. You know there isn't much I wouldn't do for you." She paused briefly, and then added, "Any of us. War, Nick, Cath… hell, even Greg would bend over backwards for you if you'd just give them the chance. You've backed us up enough times; we owe you this."

"You don't owe me anything," he corrected, uncomfortable with the warmth her words had given him. "Just… don't tell them… not yet."

She nodded her agreement. Then her face dropped slightly. "If you're really feeling better, I should probably call a cab," she said. "It's almost noon, and that light will slam you if you leave the house."

"I was just thinking that," he admitted sheepishly. "It's my treat."

She shook her head. "I'll get it. I'm just… glad you're better."

It seemed odd to him that the normally articulate Sara was fumbling with words, but he decided it would be rude to comment. He knew he was often slightly tongue-tied around her, fearing that he would inadvertently let his true feelings slip. Unfortunately, trying to speak around the words he wanted to say often caused him to hurt her, however unintentionally. There was a certain reassurance in her fumbling for words in the same way that he so often did.

He just had to wonder how much longer he would be able to listen to those halting, sweet sounding words.


End file.
